August 11, 2022
Eighteen dead hippopotamuses washed ashore on Stockton Beach. The sand beneath the purple mass sank like the bed of a giant; death-plumped bodies overlapped. Waves stroked swollen hides and moonlit bellies, swaying like restless dreamers.
Footsteps neared with a dull thunder. A bloated figure lead the drunken sway of a forming crowd. His hairy trunks parted shallow waters. In a wild swig he emptied his bottle and brandished it like a baton.
August 9, 2022
I had an edgy conversation with my sister two weeks ago on an Italian lake: Lounge chairs….umbrella tables with their own personalized ashtrays….kids frolic amongst swans, pedal boats, giant inflatable rafts.
In the lounge chair in front of us, a mahogany bedpost in his 70s,
August 5, 2022
When Manny approached me about “doing an interview” for Donald Goines I was clear with him that I was only interested in interviewing him about Goines. “But, I mean, you wrote it,” Manuel said and I said, “Yes. But you agreed to publish it.”
Manuel relented and agreed to an interview that met my own idiot guidelines. I asked that he join me on Discord where we could just talk about my book and I could ask him questions and he could maybe ask me questions and we could “see where it goes.”
August 4, 2022
Friday nights were bass night at Charlie’s Arcade. You waited until the last customer left then Charlie opened the back of the Street Fighter 2 machine. Instead of a computer board and assorted wires, inside was a tiny door. Open the door and there’s a spiral staircase carved into the earth. Go down that and you come out in a massive room, lined with egg cartons to reduce the noise.